


Tempus Fugit

by poetesmaudits



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Painter Grantaire, Portrait of a lady on fire au, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23419423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetesmaudits/pseuds/poetesmaudits
Summary: In mid-eighteenth century France, Grantaire is invited to the Enjolras' estate to paint a portrait of the youngest and only son.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 101





	Tempus Fugit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obnubilate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obnubilate/gifts).



> so i very well know that the whole point of PoaLoF was that it was supposed to be a women's film about women's struggles in a patriarchal society, but the very basic symbolism in between marianne and héloïse was so similar to that of R and enjolras that i couldn't stop myself. this was written in under 48h, you will probably be able to tell. 
> 
> the fic contains mentions of suicide, recreational drug use and drinking, please be careful.
> 
> thank you to @obnubilate for supporting this fic! love you!

**ÎLE D'OLÉRON, 1762**

The journey to the island had been unpleasant, and rather long, too. The boatman was a disagreeable fellow who did not enjoy making conversation with his clients and would have rather simply rowed in silence. Consequently no one aboard spoke and the journey was spent staring at the clouds looming over their heads, listening to the sound of the crashing waves and the blowing wind and the shrieking seagulls, and of course counting the minutes until at last they would reach the coasts of the Île d'Oléron. Halfway through the journey, his work material had been thrown overboard by a particularly strong wave, and of course he had no other choices but to jump into the water to fetch the box back. The boatman had stared at him, had not attempted to help him, and simply warned him that he better not tip the boat over. He had spent the rest of the journey shivering and glaring at the horizon, behind the boatman's head.

When they had arrived, the boatman placed his belongings on the sand, then headed back off towards the sea.

“Where must I go?” called the man.

“Just follow the path, you won't be able to miss the castle!”

Thus he had followed the path, dripping wet, carrying his rather heavy belongings on his back. The road was longer than anticipated and often he wondered if he was lost, until at last he saw the patrons' estate in the distance, a handsome little castle which by its architecture must have been constructed under Henri IV's reign, a kind of half-fortress half-home that revealed the political instability of those times. By the time he arrived, the sun had almost set.

“I am Grantaire,” he said when a young, mousy looking boy came to open. He was let in and the boy led him up two flights of stairs and into a wide room that contained a bed, a fireplace, and a great deal of stacked up pieces of furniture by the windows, covered in sheets. The boy walked towards the fireplace, started a fire for the guest, then left.

Grantaire put his clothes to dry and opened his boxes to evaluate the damage done to his work material. The canvas was soaked.

-

“Do you think you will be up to the task?” asked the boy whose name was Gavroche later on in the evening.

“Why wouldn't I be?” asked Grantaire, who had now been painting for a few years, fresh out of the atelier of a rather accomplished painter in Paris.

“Well, the painter before you failed.”

“How come?”

“He never did manage to finish the portrait,” explained the boy, “Gave up, he did. Poor folk was practically driven mad by my mistress' son.”

Grantaire, who had been chewing on a piece of bread, stopped and contemplated the boy before him. If this young man he was to paint the portrait of was somehow making his job impossible due to some strange artifice such as an nonredeemable ugliness or outburst of insanity, things would definitely be very different to what had been written in the letter.

“What happened, exactly?”

“Well, the painter never saw his face. He left the painting upstairs, in the room you are staying in.”

Grantaire nodded, feeling slightly uneasy about the whole situation, and refilled his glass with some wine instead.

“Tell me, what is your master like?”

“Well, to be fully honest, M'sieur, I don't know him very well, M'sieur.”

“But you work here... ?”

“Yes, but he's only been here for a few weeks. He stays in his rooms most of the time. I suspect it's his life at the seminary before all this that's still rubbing off on him.”

“Was your master meant to become a priest?”

“Yes, until his brother died. He was taken out only a month ago and must marry in his stead to secure the family's welfare, as you can imagine.”

Grantaire was trying to build a portrait of this young man in his head as the conversation went along, and the more they spoke, the more disastrous was the image he had of him. How does one paint a man who refuses to be painted, and even less betrothed, and who has spent most of his life locked away from life? Grantaire was not a god-fearing man despite having been raised in religion and perhaps he even held a certain aversion to Catholicism due to his upbringing. He was however always discreet about such opinions, for men had been boiled in oil for less than that.

Later on in the evening, he observed very carefully the painting that his predecessor had done; it was well-made, the artist had been careful to details and plays on shadows and light, more than Grantaire usually was. The fabric of the coat could have looked almost real and soft to the touch from how detailed it was, and Grantaire would have stroked it, were it not for the most flagrant detail of the painting: the head was missing, crudely wiped out, an act of sabotage that ruined the painting completely.

-

The next morning, Grantaire was brought into an elegant drawing room. A woman was there, presumably the mistress of the castle, sitting in a divan located in the middle of the room, blonde haired, blue eyed, fair skinned. She stood up as Grantaire approached her, offered a kind smile, then gave him her hand to kiss.

“Monsieur Grantaire, I presume,” she said, and the man nodded, “I hope your journey here wasn't too uncomfortable.”

“Nothing of great inconvenience occurred, Madame Enjolras.”

She nodded politely and sat back down, without offering Grantaire a seat, “I am glad that you have agreed to come all this way, Monsieur, to accomplish the painting I have commissioned. You see, it regards a rather sensitive matter that must be dealt with prudently. The painter before you has failed in his task.”

“Your letter was quite unclear on the subject of the painting,” acknowledged Grantaire.

“I wish for you to make a portrait of my son, who is to be betrothed quite soon to a rich Milanese countess. We wish to send the lady a picture of him for her to have an idea of who she is agreeing to marry. The portrait must therefore be as accurate and handsome as possible, as you can imagine.”

“And why has the previous painter failed in his task?” he asked, hoping to receive a little bit more hindsight on the situation.

“My son does not want to marry,” said Madame Enjolras, an ounce of despair clear in the tone of her voice, “He refused to pose for the poor artist. It was terrible... terrible.”

“I am assuming he will not want to pose for me either.”

“Perhaps,” she said, “Which is why I don't want you to tell him that you are painting him, or that you are a painter at all. You see, I have made up a scheme: you will pass as a friend, a companion there to amuse him in his solitude. He will easily believe it, as he has no friends here and has not yet been allowed to go out alone, ever since, well, the tragic events surrounding my eldest son's death. He aches for liberty, to go outside, I see it in his eyes, the way his gaze is constantly drawn towards the windows.”

“Painting him without him posing will be rather difficult.”

“You said in your letter you were an accomplished painter, are you not?”

Grantaire looked at her in surprise, “I- well, _yes_ , but-”

“A painter graced with true talent shouldn't have too much difficulty reproducing what he sees, I believe. If your skills are not merely falsehoods spewed by Monsieur de Courfeyrac, then there are no reasons for you to fail in your task. You will be handsomely paid for it too—I will offer ten to twenty pounds, based on the quality of you work. Are we agreed?”

There really wasn't much of a choice and Grantaire simply nodded his head stupidly—if he was to fail in his task, he could always pack his belongings and ask for no money at all, and go back to the mainland like this here had never happened. He was however not quite so defeatist and believed that he should at least try and therefore offered a quiet: “Yes, Madame.”

“Good. The painting must be finished in a week, is that feasible?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Excellent,” said Madame Enjolras, “I dearly hope my son won't be too much trouble.”

-

He was given the next day a handsome, red frockcoat with matching breeches, an elegantly embroidered waistcoat, a batiste shirt and a red silk cravat that were identical to those in the other artist's painting. He attempted to imagine what did the young Enjolras look like; if he was as handsome as his mother, his age, would Grantaire even be able to see his face—which he dearly hoped he would be able to—he wanted his pay, he wanted to get off the island as soon as possible and go back to Paris, to civilisation.

“These are the only proper clothes, M'sieur,” explained Gavroche as he laid the clothes down on an abandoned crate, “He only got out of the seminary a month ago.”

“What colour is your young master's hair?” he asked the boy.

“Blonde, M'sieur,” he answered.

“And his eyes?”

“Blue.”

Grantaire stared at the other artist's painting again. The wiped out face was garish and inspired some horror, resembling the consequence of a tragedy in four acts. Grantaire poured himself a glass of wine from the little jar he was given earlier on in the morning and drank it all at once. Gavroche was staring at him with great, curious eyes.

“May I ask a delicate question?” he asked.

“Euh... yes M'sieur.”

“How did the eldest Enjolras son die?”

Gavroche diverted his eyes away for a bit, towards the damned painting, then back at Grantaire, gulped, stared down at his hands, “Well, euh, I was on a walk with him by the cliffs, soon after it was announced he was to marry that Milanese countess,” he paused for a moment, shifted a little under Grantaire's gaze, “I had my back turned for just a minute, and he was gone. When I looked over the cliff, I found his body, broken some twenty feet below. It was atrocious, M'sieur, truly.”

Grantaire put his glass of wine down and sighed heavily through his nose, “Was it an accident?”

“I don't think so.”

“Why?”

“Because he did not cry for help.”

Grantaire rubbed his face with a hand and nodded his head, allowing the young boy to leave the room. He had the terrible feeling he had stepped into something far more sinister than what he had been anticipating. It was a truly morose affair and he hoped he would simply be able to accomplish the painting in the upcoming week. If he had to lie to this poor miserable boy who had lost his brother only a month prior to the current events and who most likely had planned to live a life of chastity, only to be refused that at the very last moment, then so be it. It was an ugly job. He drank some more wine, stripped out of his clothes and slipped on the ones that had been prepared for the painting. They were too big in some places and too tight in others, which led Grantaire to assume that Enjolras was taller and leaner than him. He set up a small dais and placed a chair on it, then sat down in it to observe the folds of the costume on his body. He took mental notes, went to sketch some details in his book. Enjolras would not leave his mind. His face was blurry and morphed constantly, sometimes into that of a friend, other times into something else, the face of a painting he might have seen in a salon, into a Greek sculpture, sometimes even into the Sun King.

He remained like this for the best of two hours, before Gavroche came back, knocking before peeping his head inside.

“He's waiting for you,” he simply said, and Grantaire nodded. When the door closed, he hastily removed the clothes, struggled with the breeches that were too tight around the thighs, slipped back on his green coat and overcoat, then rushed down the stairs to avoid keeping his client waiting. When he saw him, he stopped, observed him. His entire figure was hidden under an ample, sober cloak. It was impossible to guess or assume anything about his physique, except perhaps that he could have been quite tall. He opened his mouth to say hello, but before he could do anything, Enjolras opened the front door he was standing by and stepped outside wordlessly. Grantaire followed. They walked down the path that led to the beach, Enjolras taking jolly long strides and Grantaire struggling to follow at an equally fast pace, his shorter legs not allowing him to do so. The young man walked with such great vivacity that the hood of his cloak eventually slipped, revealing a tumble of incredible, beautiful golden curls swept by the gentle wind, hiding a neck that Grantaire could guess was as fine and as delicate as his hair. He was speechless and even slowed down at this lovely sight, awestruck. Enjolras of course seized this moment to break into a run, straight ahead towards the cliff. Grantaire immediately started running after him, incapable of uttering anything at all, panicking and praying he wasn't going to witness his poor client's son's suicide.

Just as he reached the cliff, Enjolras stopped, and breathlessly, he turned around, looking directly at Grantaire, whose heartbeat increased considerably at the sight of him.

Enjolras was angelic. Grantaire did not know it was possible for a man to be this beautiful, and yet this young man was the living proof of it. He resembled the finest Greek marble, with a noble, straight nose, lips as round and as red as rose buds, high cheekbones slightly flushed from all the exercise he had just done, teeth as white as snow, eyes as blue as the water behind him. Whisks of blonde strands whipped around his face, and he batted his long, light brown eyelashes a few times to clear the wind out of his eyes.

“I've always wanted to do that,” he said, still out of breath. Even his voice was heavenly.

“Dying?”

“No, running.”

Grantaire sighed in relief. Enjolras turned away from him and initiated a walk down towards the beach, careful not to slip down the steep track. He wore somber, dark clothes either to mourn his lost brother or because those were the only clothes he had from the seminary, and Grantaire thought that they clashed cruelly with the brightness of his hair and face. He wore no emotions and simply stared ahead at the sea as though wishing to escape this somehow. Grantaire's heart was still pounding heavily from the fright he had given him merely moments before.

They sat down on the beach in silence, both staring at the waves that came and went infinitely. Enjolras seemed mesmerised and Grantaire took it as an opportunity to observe his face, his posture, his hands, long, elegant hands that reminded him almost of those of a woman from how delicate they looked. His frame was tall and slender and his face held a certain juvinility that made it impossible to guess whether he was seventeen or twenty-five. Grantaire could not stop staring at him, and Enjolras had the decency to pretend he wasn't noticing. His jaw was straight but not sharp, slightly curved near the ear, that was small and round. The lobe hung slightly, and a dark mole hid behind it, visible only if he would tie his hair (which would be the case in the painting). He had another mole in his long, artfully curved neck, below his chin. Part of the artist's job is to observe, Grantaire reminded himself, therefore observing this wonderful man was an absolute necessity.

“Mother tells me you are here to entertain me,” said Enjolras, turning his head to look at him and catching him red-handedly staring.

“Indeed,” replied Grantaire, not really knowing what can and what cannot be said.

“Well, what do you do? Do you usually entertain rich folks for money?”

“I—am a craftsman, usually. I just needed a little extra money to make ends meet, I guess.”

“This explains that.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

Another silence broke through and Enjolras went back to staring at the sea. Grantaire pretended to be looking at the water as well, but regularly glanced at the blonde young man, looking for details he may have missed, the particular curve of his lips, the tint of his eyebrows, the height of his forehead, the length of his pinky finger in comparison to the ring finger and the middle finger, the precise location of a freckle on the thumb, the depth of his great, sad eyes that revealed so many terrible, unspoken feelings. Christ, his eyes.

“Do you have anything to drink?” asked Enjolras, “All this running has given be a terrible thirst.”

“Only wine.”

“It's fine,” he said, and Grantaire took out his flask which Enjolras took, uncapped, sniffed as though he suspected Grantaire of lying to him, then took a swig from it and scrunched his face in disgust, “ _Pouah_! It has gone sour.”

“It remains wine,” says Grantaire, taking the flask back and drinking from it with much more avidity, “A tree remains a tree even after it has fallen, a man remains a man even in death, a painting remains a painting even when ruined.”

“The tree becomes a fallen tree, the man becomes a dead man, the painting becomes a ruined painting,” replied Enjolras, a soft scowl on his face. He did not look particularly angry at Grantaire, however, but mostly at the alcohol, and perhaps at life in general, “The adjective defining the state the object is in is in fact of the greatest importance. One cannot afford to neglect such details, especially when speaking about death.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Grantaire. There was a great pause during which both embraced the sound of the wind and the crashing waves, before Grantaire dared to ask; “Do you think your brother wanted to die?”

Enjolras seemed taken aback by the question by the way his eyebrows shot up high, tracing lines on his unblemished forehead.

“You are the first person who has the guts to ask this question,” he replied, looking down at his hands in his lap. The right hand was placed over the left one. Blue veins were perceptible through the skin, proof that he had been locked indoors most of his life. Grantaire's hand resembled monsters next to his. Enjolras looked him straight in the eye; “I think he did.”

“What makes you think that?”

“He left me a letter in which he apologises.”

“What does he apologise for?”

“I don't know. Maybe for leaving me his destiny.”

Grantaire shifted slightly closer, looked him in the eye, “Wedding is not so terrible a thing, you know. You will find it is quite comfortable in many ways.”

Enjolras inhaled a sharp breath and straightened his back, “Monsieur Grantaire, what do you know of my marriage?”

“Only that you are to marry an older Milanese countess.”

“So just as much as I do,” he said, passing a hand through his hair, “You understand why I find it quite appalling, don't you?”Grantaire shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. Enjolras stood up from his seat and dusted the sand off his cloak. “Let's go back, I am bored.”

During the entire walk back, Grantaire made sure to observe Enjolras' silhouette and features as attentively as possible, attempting to memorise as many details as possible. He could not forget or misinterpret anything or the painting would be ruined and he would be left without money to pay his rent. As soon as he arrived in his room, he rushed to his paper and coal and started sketching everything he had remembered, from the mouth to the jaw to the hands to the eyes, with trembling fingers and a heavy breath. As he attempted to pour himself some more wine, some was spilt on the floor, right next to the sketch of Enjolras' shoulder.

When he was done sketching, he went to the kitchens for supper, and Gavroche served him some bread and cheese with some red wine (that had not turned sour). They discussed this and that, of the smallest things, Gavroche explaining that he has a family which he does not see that often despite them living on the island as well. Grantaire talked a bit about his childhood, his father who did not support him as an artist and would have liked it better if he had become an accountant in Angoulême like he had been, and how someone who spent too much money on booze and ladies would never be able to achieve anything at all. Grantaire was proud of where he stood today, however. He had reached more grades than anyone could have ever expected of him. Then they spoke of Enjolras.

“Your master seems so sad all the time,” said Grantaire, playing with his cup, “I have not once seen him smile.”

“Well, have you tried being funny?” asked Gavroche. Grantaire had in fact not tried to be funny.

That night he laid in bed, smoking and staring at the tall ceiling while thinking about how stunning the man was, and how he had left Grantaire completely breathless, enthralled, like Echo loving an unaware Narcissus. His dreams were plagued with strange images that held meanings he could not unravel.

-

The next day was spent sketching and painting. He managed to get Gavroche to slip into the clothes and pose for him. They were far too big on him, but it did not truly matter. It gave Grantaire an approximate idea of how should Enjolras look if put in a similar position. The red coat was beautiful, elegant and imagining Enjolras in it was practically overwhelming.

Later on he went back to the beach with Enjolras. The young man stayed away, wandering off barefoot in the sand, and Grantaire remained behind to sketch what he had noticed this time. Enjolras had tied his hair into a low ponytail, revealing lovely baby hair behind his neck and ears. He had another mole at the nape of his neck as well, which Grantaire noted despite it being of no relevance, as it would not be possible to represent it on the painting. The man was a God, could only be a God from how beautiful he was. No sculpture of Adonis could have rivaled with him, no Apollo could ever claim a beauty superior to his. Grantaire knew very well he was falling down a rabbit hole at a fuliginous speed with no way back. He wondered if he would fall for the painting the same way Pygmalion had fallen for his own work, wondered if he would ever be able to tear those incredible eyes out of his mind once it would be time for him to leave.

When Enjolras came back, Grantaire was careful to hide his drawings away.

“I wish to swim,” he said, and Grantaire looked at him.

“Do you know how to swim?”

“I don't know.”

“Then it is perhaps unsafe-”

“I mean I don't know if I know how to swim.”

Grantaire looked away, at the sea. The wind was blowing particularly violently that day, “It would be dangerous today,” he said, “The waves could be too strong.”

Enjolras nodded.

“Are you a married man, Grantaire?” he asked.

“I admit that I am not,” he replied, taking out his wine flask again. He took a swig, offered some to Enjolras who politely declined.

“Then how can you preach about the virtues of marriage when you do not even know them yourself?”

“I know a great deal of things, I am a man who has lived and I know what is marriage despite having never experienced it.”

“Marriage is perpetual imprisonment.”

“And priesthood is not?”

Enjolras glared at him, huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, “Are you one of those who do not believe in the existence of our Lord?”

“I have read Voltaire,” replied Grantaire. Enjolras grabbed a fistful of sand and threw it ahead of him, but the wind blew it right back in his face. He groaned, rubbing his eyes to try and get it out, but seemed only to be making it worse. “Close your eyes,” said Grantaire, kneeling next to him and edging closer to help him, “Roll your eyes around, don't rub them.”

Enjolras did not wave him away as Grantaire had expected him to and instead obeyed the artist's orders, blinking multiple times until his eyesight was clear. He then turned back to Grantaire, “I found in the seminar a freedom that I could have never known in this world,” he said, “For one, celibacy, which prevented me from having to marry. For two, I had access to many books which is not the case here, and to music, too. I have not heard music once ever since I came here.”

“I took a book with me,” said Grantaire, “You can read it if you'd like.”

“Thank you.”

“As for music, I can arrange something.”

They walked back towards the château, this time side by side and continuing a conversation. Grantaire told Enjolras of Paris and the bursting, bumbling life it contained everywhere at any time of the day. Enjolras listened willfully, having never been there and having such little insight on the world outside of his estate and outside of the seminary. When they arrived, they eagerly climbed up the stairs and reached the room Grantaire was staying in. Enjolras waited for the artist to invite him in, then gazed around.

“It is strange you are staying here,” he said. Grantaire didn't answer and went to fetch the book. “What about the music?”

Grantaire offered him a gentle smile, “I wish to play you a piece of music I have heard a few times now already and which I love,” he said, walking towards the harpsichord located by the door, under a white sheet. He removed the sheet and sat down on the chair before the instrument.

“Is it joyful?”

“No, but it is alive.”

The wine he had had on the beach was muddling his brain and he had a moment of hesitation as he stared at the keys, trying to remember, then started playing the first chords of Summer from Vivaldi's Four Seasons. Enjolras quickly came to sit by his side, their thighs touching. His eyes were full of wonder as he stared at Grantaire's fingers placed on the keys.

“What is it about?”

“It tells the story of an incoming storm,” he said, playing, and he saw from the corner of his eyes that Enjolras was already enthralled. He smiled to himself for such a small victory, “and the buzzing insects...”

He played, until he reached a point where his brain was incapable of remembering the notes, and he stared embarrassingly down at his hands as he tried again and again, and Enjolras looked at him expectantly.

“It's very pretty,” said Enjolras when Grantaire reached another false note.

“Don't mock me now,” replied Grantaire, bowing his head. The hair that had fallen out of his ponytail fell around his face like a thick, black curtain.

“I was not,” replied Enjolras, I was being sincere.”

“Well,” responded Grantaire, “You will see when you go to Milan, it is a city of music. People play much better than I do—after all I am no musician.”

Enjolras' face became somber again. He looked at Grantaire for one, two, three seconds, his expressions revealing nothing of his current state of mind, before at last he said in a much lower voice than that he had used only moments ago, “Then I cannot wait to go to Milan.”

Grantaire burnt the other artist's painting on that night.

-

The remaining days went by quickly, and Grantaire was able to finish the painting on time. Once he had almost been caught by the young master with paint stained hands while enjoying a glass of wine with Gavroche in the kitchens, but thankfully the man had noticed nothing. Nights were spent thinking about the incandescent beauty of the man, and often Grantaire thought that he could have easily found pleasure if only he would close his eyes and allow certain thoughts to penetrate his mind, but he never allowed it, for it would have seemed dirty, a sacrilege almost—a most ridiculous notion for a man who did not hold faith in anyone or anything other than life and good wine.

The painting was perhaps not as great as it could have been, but Grantaire was nevertheless satisfied with it. Painting without a model posing is extremely difficult, especially if the portrait must be as accurate and flattering as possible. He had given Enjolras a small smile that he had seen only too little occasions on the Adonis' face and that had never quite reached the eyes. The hair was tied back elegantly and somehow gave his face a certain emptiness, as though plain and unsavoury—he had in an attempt to hide this, drawn a sort of halo around his head. The eyes were pale and Grantaire had tried as best as he could to give a little twinkle of affection in them, but it did not seem to add much liveliness to the portrait. The more he looked at it, the less satisfied he was, and the less satisfied he became, the more he hated it. When he believed madness would push him to take drastic decisions, he tore his gaze away from the portrait before wanting to destroy it completely and set fire to it as he had done to the other portrait.

“The portrait is done,” he told Madame Enjolras on the same day, in the morning.

“Ah, that is excellent news!” replied the lady, a smile gracing her features but not quite reaching her eyes either, “Shall we go see it?”

“I would like, Madame, for your son to see it first, privately,” he said, “I want to tell him the reason for my presence here in order not to leave in bad terms, if possible.”

Madame Enjolras' smile faded a little bit, but she agreed nonetheless. Grantaire was grateful for it.

The same afternoon, he and Enjolras went back down to the beach. The air was not too windy and Enjolras had let his hair wild, tumbling down the edges of his face and neck in waves of gold. Grantaire felt a terrible ball forming in his throat that suddenly made it difficult to breathe.

“There is something I must tell you,” he exhaled, and Enjolras turned his head towards him, adopting an inquisitive look, though a smile still played on his lips. “I am leaving... tomorrow.”

Enjolras' face fell completely.

“Why so?”

“There is something I must confess,” said Grantaire, very slowly, and Enjolras looked at him with a very worried look burning in his eyes, “I did not come here specifically to serve as a companion during your stay here,” another break, Grantaire flexed his hands five times in his lap until he realised Enjolras was staring at them. “I am a painter. I came here to paint your portrait.”

Enjolras' entire body language closed up on itself at that moment and it became impossible to guess what was he thinking and feeling. Only he stared at Grantaire with those cold eyes of his and his lips were pinched into a grim line and his whole posture straightened up.

“I see,” he said, “Now I understand better why you talked so often about the importance of marriage and the beauty of Milan—you felt guilty.”

“That's not true, I-”

“I don't want to hear your excuses.”

“Enjolras-”

“Is the painting done?”

“I- _yes_ , yes it is.”

“Then we might as well go and see it.”

They raced back to the house. Enjolras burst into Grantaire's chamber, this time not waiting for permission to enter. He tore open the curtain that had hidden Grantaire's small art corner from the rest of the room and made for the portrait, staring at it critically, an analytical glare scanning over the work. Grantaire, slightly breathless from having run up the stairs two steps at a time, trailed behind him and looked at the painting. Suddenly, as he saw it with Enjolras standing right next to it, he found it disgraceful. He tried not to show his abhorrence to his own work and adopted instead a proud look, that withered under Enjolras' glacial, hard stare.

“Is this how you see me?” he asked, venom on his tongue.

“Yes,” said Grantaire.

“Really?”

“Do you not think so?”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows defiantly as he looked back at the painting, “It looks empty.”

“It absolutely does not!” replied Grantaire, “You—you may not like it, but I will inform you, Monsieur, that there are rules, conventions that must be respected when painting a portrait. I only respected them.”

The painted version of Enjolras' smile suddenly looked almost nagging to Grantaire as he stared back at it. The sort of halo he had added behind his head looked awful. Enjolras was practically seething with anger.

“Well, perhaps you shouldn't have relied on these conventions judging by the state of this...” he was trying to find a word to qualify the painting before him, but eventually gave up; “ _this_.”

Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look angry when all he was feeling was deep, terrible hurt and panic. This was not how he had wanted things to happen, definitely not, he did not want to leave Enjolras on such bad terms.

“I did not know you were an art critic,” he replied to Enjolras' harsh words.

“I did not know you were a painter,” Enjolras spat back. Grantaire gasped in shock. They stared at each other for a moment longer, Grantaire destroyed and Enjolras fulminating, before at last the latter tore himself out of sufficient amount of layers of anger to say, “I am going to fetch mother,” before stalking off.

The panic started settling in as Grantaire stared at his work. It looked abominable, the work of a student in his first year at the atelier at the very best, and he pulled at his hair in fright, clenching his teeth and looking around the now terribly empty room. He considered packing his bags just then, running away, disappearing without a word and never coming back to avoid ruining his reputation more than necessary, but he discovered that he was incapable of moving. He saw simply an old rag behind him, seized it and angrily rubbed away Enjolras' face, destroying the painting to the point of no return.

When Madame Enjolras walked in followed by her son, Grantaire was still clutching the rag. The lady stared at the painting for twenty long seconds, then turned to Grantaire, looking just as furious as her son had been only minutes earlier. Grantaire blanched.

“Is this a joke?” she asked, voice as cold as ice.

“I will make a new one, Madame,” replied Grantaire, “This one was unsatisfactory, you would not have liked it, the next one shall be much better, I-”

“Do you think I am stupid? I want you out of this house in the next hour. Away with you!”

“Madame, I am begging you!”

Madame Enjolras was about to shout at him from how flushed her face was, but instead her son interrupted her, placing himself in between the two of them; “Mother, don't, give him a second chance,” he said.

“No, my son, I will certainly not!”

“I promise I will pose for him!”

The mother stopped dead in her tracks, stared at her son with sudden great affection and sadness, seemingly trying to understand what was she feeling before she at last let a genuine, warm smile play on her lips for the first time ever since Grantaire has arrived here.

“Would you do that?” she asked, very, very softly.

“Yes,” replied Enjolras, bowing his head in a tone of voice that was just as gentle and yet which made him sound like a man being sent to the galleys.

“Oh, my son!” she said with great affection in her blue eyes—it was evident she was on the verge of tears; “My sweet, sweet boy! You may stay then, Monsieur Grantaire, but I give you only five days to accomplish the portrait. I have affairs on the mainland I must tend to during that time. You will do good to finish in time if you do wish to be paid.”

“Thank you, thank you a thousand times, Madame,” said Grantaire, but Madame Enjolras had already stopped paying him any attention, focused only on her son.

“I am so happy, my boy, so so happy. Thank you. Please do me the favour of kissing your mother goodbye, like when you were a child.”

Enjolras stared at her for a moment. Grantaire wanted to look away to give the mother and son some semblance of intimacy but found he was incapable of doing such thing, eyes transfixed on the scene before him. Enjolras pressed his finger tips against his lips without ever diverting his eyes from his mother's. He then slowly reached for her cheeks and pressed his fingers against them. Madame Enjolras closed her eyes and placed her own hands over her son's, letting out a few, small tears.

Then, she left.

-

Grantaire could not believe his luck. Why had Enjolras saved him like this, he did not know, but he was very certainly planning on making things right this time, so he would at least get his pay. Enjolras had put on the elegant clothes and looked absolutely dashing in them. The red frockcoat suited him perfectly. He resembled a handsome prince, cold and austere, dreading the terrible moments to come. Grantaire could not tear his eyes away from him. He led him to the small dais he had set up and onto the chair, then pulled a crate next to his right arm, slipped a quill in between his fingers, placed a few sheets of paper under the quill with a pot of ink, positioned his arm for it to look as though he was writing, told him to lift his chin up a bit, to look at where Grantaire would be painting, and when the scene looked as perfect as could be, he rushed back behind his easel.

“You do know I am not that greatly cultivated,” said Enjolras, slightly moving his fingers around the quill he was holding, “The seminary did not have that many enlightened books—mostly romances or novels about moral, such as _Clarissa Harlowe_ or _Manon Lescaut_.”

“Don't move!—and it is quite fine, we live in a century where what matters most and foremost are appearances. If your future wife thinks she is marrying an _éclairé_ , she will most likely be considerably more pleased. No matter that you have not read Voltaire or Rousseau, most people have not and yet they enjoy acting as though they have, and consequently as though they are very spirited—and vice versa, many people have read Voltaire and Rousseau and have no spirit at all. Naturally I belong to the second category of people.”

“I don't believe that you have no spirit,” said Enjolras.

“You are far more spirited a man than I am,” replied Grantaire.

“I have no experience in the world.”

“And yet your logic is infallible.”

“You flatter me,” said Enjolras, blushing lightly and waving his hand.

“Don't _move_!”

He immediately put his hand back in place and ceased all movement, returning to his stoic position. He did not grace a smile, merely stared at Grantaire as he finished working on the esquisse. Enjolras soon began talking again, and Grantaire would have scolded him had he already been busy with the painting.

“Have you read many enlightened books?” asked Enjolras.

“Enough to forge an opinion on them, yes.”

“And what is your opinion on them?”

Grantaire put the piece of coal down so he could focus on the subject of his work, the young Adonis staring back at him.

“I know that most men of our time are hypocrites and charlatans. Voltaire preaches about the abolition of slavery and yet sells slaves himself. Rousseau preaches about injustice and inequality and yet is loathe of women and treats them as the most insignificant harlots. Just this year he has written a book about children's education, and yet he has abandoned his own. I appreciate only Diderot, for he is a man of true intellect, and more importantly, a man of his time: a libertine.”

Enjolras' left eyebrow rose comically high.

“Do you condone libertinism?”

“My, Enjolras, you are quite a curious fellow,” teased Grantaire, “You could say that I do in many ways. I believe in our emancipation and therefore that all men— _and_ women—are free to do as they please with their body. Do I however condone that any fool can visit a press and publish his unfounded thesis and qualify it as unequivocally true for everyone to adopt his silly mindset until he is contradicted the very next week by another fool, and sometimes by his own self? No.”

“You are quite a skeptic, then.”

“Perhaps I am.”

Enjolras stared at him for a very long time, before exhaling a deep, suppressed breath. The emotion in his eyes had changed, though it was impossible for Grantaire to pinpoint exactly what sentiment was reflected in those lovely pools of blue.

“I wish it was possible for me to make my own mind on such matters,” said Enjolras.

“If your future wife is as rich as I have heard,” said Grantaire, “Then you will have all the time in the world to educate yourself. You will be freer than you've ever been, Monsieur le Comte.”

“I very much doubt so,” replied Enjolras, frowning slightly, “And do not call me that. Do not spite me. I will lose a great part of liberty once married, if not through husbandly duties then certainly through parties and dinners and such.”

“Tell that to your _wife_ ,” said Grantaire with an ounce of irony.

“I know very well that my future wife is in an even less favourable position to mine,” Grantaire said nothing to that and Enjolras pressed on; “I say only that marriage is the loss of liberty in the name of convention, and I do not want that. I aspire for freedom and I aspire for a life that is not articulated by those around me, but rather by myself—a life like _yours_.”

“Do not fool yourself, I do not articulate my own life,” Grantaire replied, slowly, “When it is not family that forces you into doing things you would have never agreed to do on your own accord, other factors come in—money, usually. Money is what renders us true slaves, even in this so called liberty we all aspire to today. Liberty does not exist, it is only an unreachable concept which you strain for always a little bit more but never quite seem to grasp. I know this, I have looked for it myself.”

“Then perhaps the philosophers are not asking the right questions,” said Enjolras.

“Do you wish to elaborate on that?”

Their eyes stared for a long time, quietly trying to understand what was the other thinking.

“No.”

There was another break, and it was almost possible then in that instant to believe that time was merely an illusion and held no purpose, that Grantaire would not have to leave in five days, that their conversations could go on for decades, centuries, that the sun would never set and the light will remain as perfect as the one they had right now for ever, and Madame Enjolras would never come back from her voyage. Enjolras' beauty was truly striking then, resembling for the first time a true man rather than an inexperienced boy, as though the clothes had transfigured him completely. Grantaire was the first to break out of this trance and blinked, pushed himself off the piece of furniture he was previously pressed against, and grabbed his piece of coal he used for drawing.

-

Later that night Grantaire found that he was incapable of falling asleep, his mind plagued with images of Enjolras. He eventually headed for the kitchens and was soon joined by Gavroche, who made them some herbal tea.

“My sister told me this recipe before I came to work here, she did” he said, “It helps when you have trouble sleeping.”

“Does it often happen to you?”

Gavroche shrugged his shoulders and placed the bowl containing boiled flowers in front of Grantaire in an unintentional clatter.

“Oops,” he said, “I've had trouble for quite a few nights now, it happens sometimes.”

“How many?” asked Grantaire.

“Four weeks, M'sieur.”

Grantaire then only truly paid attention to Gavroche's features. The bags under his eyes were dark and gave his skin a sickly look. His face was pale, the white of his eyes was red.

Grantaire knew a physician in Paris, Joly, who had told him on multiple occasions little tricks to use when struck with insomnia. It was not normal that a boy like Gavroche, who spent his days serving the people in this castle, could not sleep at night.

“Tomorrow we shall try to find a remedy to this,” he told Gavroche, who nodded his head.

-

The next day was spent attempting to tire out Gavroche as much as possible. Enjolras accompanied them to the beach, and they made Gavroche run back and forth, jump, skip, roll until he could no longer stand on his feet. Then the three of them went on the lookout for more flowers that could serve in a sleeping drought. When a sufficient amount had been picked, they went back home, and exhausted Gavroche some more by making him do all sorts of complicated and grueling physical exercises.

“Do you often indulge in similar practices?” Enjolras asked as Grantaire went to sit by his side.

“There was a time when I had to, yes,” he said, “Nowadays, wine is sufficient.”

Enjolras did not comment on that.

“What was troubling you the last time you were rendered thus sleepless?”

“A matter of the heart,” replied Grantaire. They were staring at each other again with devouring eyes. A smile playing on both their lips.

“Have you already known love?”

Grantaire looked down at his glass of wine before looking back up at Enjolras. He was wearing his dark seminary clothes again which gave him a much sadder look.

“Yes, on occasion.”

Enjolras' breath hitched just a little bit, though Grantaire did not notice that; “What is it like?”

“Well-”

He did not get to finish his sentence, interrupted by Gavroche who fell in a grunt, completely exhausted. Enjolras helped carrying the boy to Grantaire's room, and they laid him in down the bed. He fell asleep immediately and Grantaire went to make a fire. Enjolras sat on the edge of the bed and watched his servant sleep.

Later, Enjolras was asleep next to Gavroche in Grantaire's bed, and Grantaire still could not sleep despite being considerably more inebriated than he had been earlier in the evening. Something was bubbling deep in his gut and he was incapable of going to sleep, not when the blonde man was fast asleep right there. He looked terribly beautiful and angelic, blonde curls spread on the pillow beneath his head, pink lips parted just enough to reveal the tip of pretty white teeth, his batiste shirt left open to reveal the gentle, pale skin of his neck, peppered in places with small, brown moles. Grantaire ached to touch him, but did not wish to rouse him and destroy this almost sacred scene.

Instead, he got up, went to fetch some paper, coal and candles, and went to sit back on the edge of the bed, by Enjolras' sleeping figure. He was very careful, feeling not unlike Psyché attempting to see the face of Cupid in the candlelight at night. Perhaps Aphrodite herself would have come to punish Grantaire for this great transgression he was committing, as he started drawing Enjolras' face. Perhaps thusly he was in a way much like Psyché, choosing the memory of Enjolras over the man himself. Perhaps he too was willing to go through the most complicated of tasks to see the blonde angel again, for at least he would have this small fragment of memory to cherish in his pain.

When he looked up from his drawing, the divine intervention he had been dreading came in the shape of Enjolras awaken, staring at him with a gentle smile playing on his lips. It was not so terrible a punishment.

-

He had already finished painting the coat and was busy with the face, the lips more particularly when he spoke up, a sigh escaping his mouth; “I never seem to be able to make you smile. It's as if I had the impression of giving you one and then it disappears.”

“Anger always wins,” replied Enjolras.

“It is certainty with you,” Grantaire said. Enjolras looked down at his hand. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

“You didn't.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Grantaire observed him for a moment, quiet, before speaking; “When you are upset, you look down at your hands,” Enjolras blushed and looked away. Grantaire edged closer, not dissimilar to an adventurer constantly seeking to step a little bit further onto unknown territory; “And when you are embarrassed, you blush and look away. As for when you are annoyed, you bite onto the inside of your cheek.”

Enjolras immediately stopped biting it, though the look on his face clearly showed that he was still very much annoyed; “You know everything,” he said.

“Forgive me,” responded Grantaire gently, but I would not like to be in your place.”

“And yet we already are,” said Enjolras, still holding the pose Grantaire had put him in, “Come here.” Grantaire obeyed, walked towards the other man and stopped approximately two feet away from him. “Come closer.” Grantaire did as he was told. He could have touched him from how close he stood from him, an accidental movement, a breath, a blink of an eye would have sufficed. He looked at Enjolras who was looking back, ice cold blue against brown, and a tremour deep in the marrow of his bones was felt. From a closer distance one could see the pale, barely visible freckles on the blonde man's nose, the most insignificant scar on his chin, the mole behind his ear. “Look,” he said, in a very low, quiet voice, indicating towards where Grantaire had been painting mere seconds ago, “If you're looking at me, then who am _I_ looking at?” Grantaire let out an involuntary, quiet gasp and looked down at his feet. Enjolras edged on, “When you do not know what to say, you gasp and look down,” he said, still looking at Grantaire, without even blinking. Grantaire scoffed slightly, refusing to look at Enjolras, “And when you lose control of the situation, you scoff and refuse to make eye contact,” Grantaire involuntarily forced eye contact despite his every senses feeling terribly uncomfortable under the blonde's scrutiny, incapable of saying anything. They were so close, so incredibly close now. Grantaire could have easily touched his cheek and mar it with paint, but he did not, and instead only bit down on his lip, gulped heavily and stared at Enjolras' overwhelmingly handsome face; “And when you are troubled,” he said, slowly, lower still, “You bite your lip and swallow heavily.”

Their faces were so close. He could feel that by some natural attraction he was moving closer still, and so was Enjolras. Both were staring at each other's lips now, Grantaire breathing heavily, Enjolras looking mildly troubled. When the tension grew too high, Grantaire managed to tear himself out of this trance and took a step back, and Enjolras immediately straightened his back as well.

“I-” he tried, taking a deep breath, “We should resume the painting.”

-

The same night they played cards in the kitchen with Gavroche. Enjolras was winning, but only because he was cheating. Grantaire was losing by far, and multiple times Gavroche excitedly shouted at him to focus, but he was incapable of doing so, still troubled by the events that had occurred earlier on today and because the wine had addled his concentration. Gavroche still managed to win at the last second. He shouted in victory and drank some of the wine before anyone could have stopped him. He grinned happily and offered a second game, in the hope of winning again.

-

The following day was spent similarly. Enjolras posed and asked questions about Grantaire's painting careers. More tense silences, fleeting looks, sharp breaths occurred. In the evening, Gavroche read a book at the kitchen table while Enjolras took care of the cooking, more or less clumsily. His hands were not so nimble when holding a knife, and he did burn the soup, but the other two forgave him for it was not so terrible for a first attempt.

Later, they found themselves reading the story of Orpheus and Eurydice, Grantaire and Gavroche huddled up around Enjolras as he narrated as best he could, using that very gentle, almost godlike voice of his that made it very easy for any mortal to be enthralled by. Gavroche was staring, wide eyed and eager to hear more, always more, absorbing the words with great attention, leaning forward over the table as though it would allow him to catch Enjolras' words just a little bit sooner. Grantaire knew the book by heart and yet hearing it with Enjolras' voice gave it a newness, a freshness he had craved and was thankful for.

They reached the part where Orpheus pleads the Eumenides for Eurydice's return to the mortal world.

“I hope they will say yes,” whispered Gavroche, holding onto himself.

Of course, they did say yes, and Gavroche sighed in relief, before hearing the conditions for Eurydice's resurrection: Orpheus must guide her back towards the mortal world without once looking at her—otherwise all his efforts would have been in vain. When they reach the part where, after climbing up the tunnels of Tartarus and finally reaching the mortal world, Orpheus full of doubt turns around to see if Eurydice is still following him loses his lover forever, Gavroche let out a loud gasp of abject surprise and horror.

“What a _cunt_!” he cried, and Enjolras paused his reading to look at him, “Poor Eurydice, why would Orpheus turn around when he was specifically told not to! And for no reason!”

Grantaire intervened; “There are reasons.”

“You think so? Reread the passage,” he told Enjolras who obeyed orders. Orpheus, afraid to lose his beloved, turned around to make sure Eurydice was still following him; “See! His reasons make no sense! He disobeyed direct orders which were given specifically for him to retrieve his beloved like a fool! It's almost as if he doesn't not love her at all and only wanted for her to suffer!”

“I think you are not completely wrong,” said Grantaire, smiling gently. Enjolras had his face pressed against his wrist and was listening quietly, curious to know how did the artist interpret the situation; “Perhaps if Orpheus has turned around it is because he has made a choice: he has chosen the memory of Eurydice over Eurydice herself—he makes not the choice of the lover, he makes the choice of the poet.”

There is a brief silence where all contemplate Grantaire's words, before Enjolras picks up the book and finishes to read the scene: “ _She addresses a supreme farewell that already can barely reach his ears, and she falls back into the abyss from which she had come_.” he meditates for a moment before adding; “Perhaps she was the one who told him to turn around.”

-

They went out later that evening when the night had already settled in and the stars drew constellations in the sky. Gavroche went to see his sisters, two young women in maiden clothes. Swarms of people were walking around in the field they had stopped in, mostly women. A huge fire had been built. Grantaire wandered around it, taking an occasional swig from his wine flask. Enjolras was on the other side of the fire, enveloped in his warm cloak. When Gavroche was done talking with his sisters, he joined Grantaire, and he was about to say something when the villagers began humming in unison around the fire, until the women broke into a song in Latin which Grantaire had never heard. It sounded extremely mystical, powerful and ancient as though it had been sung here for centuries already. _Bewitching_ was perhaps the most accurate word to describe it. Grantaire was incapable of looking away.

_Fugere non possum._

I cannot flee.

The words spoke for themselves. Enjolras looked just as mesmerised by the scene, these women gathered together to sing a song that said long about what they felt and their condition—but moreover there was something terribly haunting in the words they sang that made him wonder if they were not by some unnatural way foreboding something else, something deeper still than what the song claimed. At that moment he looked at Grantaire who stood on the opposite side of the fire and who was smiling brightly at him, marvel written in his eyes. Enjolras was entranced, unable to move almost as though the music had put a spell on him. He eventually managed to take a few steps from the fire, still staring at Grantaire, though the other man's smile had faded. Enjolras continued walking, slowly, then felt Grantaire's eyes fall on his cloak. He looked down to see that he was on fire. When he looked back at Grantaire, the artist had not moved and was simply still looking, horror now written all over his face.

Two ladies rushed towards him and threw a cloth on his cloak to turn it off, and Enjolras fell to the floor.

-

The next day they went to the caves by the sea and kissed.

Enjolras ran away and did not join them for dinner.

-

The same night, as Grantaire walked up to his bedroom after a game of cards with Gavroche, he saw a ghost, or what may have been simply a figment of his imagination. He was tired and the events that had taken place in the caves rendered him despondent. He had just finished climbing the two flights of stairs and was already considering drinking his sorrows away when a chill was felt in is neck, paralysing him on sight. He let out a shudder, turned around slowly, and saw just down the hallway Enjolras, or what he thought was Enjolras, in a wedding suit, glowing with some sort of iridescent light, his hair a halo around his face. He vanished in the blink of an eye.

Grantaire was uncertain of what to make of this apparition and simply strode slowly towards his bed chambers, opened the door, and there was Enjolras again, though this time in the clothes he had been wearing in the morning and radiating no iridescent light. Grantaire walked up to him in a few quick strides and immediately touched him to make sure he was real. When he did not vanish under his fingers, he pressed his face into Enjolras' neck and let the taller man wrap his arms around him, holding him close—an apology for the morning, an invitation for now.

“I thought I had scared you off,” whispered Grantaire, on the brink of tears.

“You did,” Enjolras answered in an equally hushed voice. They stood like this for a moment, holding each other close, and slowly, Enjolras bowed his head until his face was buried in Grantaire's own neck, finger tips caressing his shoulder, his jaw, causing goosebumps to rise on the sensitive skin of his neck and a shiver to run up his spine. The moment was incredibly intimate, so much more wholesome and true and real to what had happened that morning, and Grantaire was infinitely grateful for Enjolras' soft touches, so much he could have cried in that moment. Enjolras carried on, fingers tracing the contours of Grantaire's face before slowly reaching his lips and still in a whisper he said; “Do all lovers feel they're inventing something?” Grantaire let out a shudder; “I know the gestures, I have imagined them multiple times on you.”

Grantaire's eyes were shut but he trembled some more under Enjolras' sensual touches; “Have you dreamed of me?”

“No, I have thought of you.”

Enjolras then slowly pulled Grantaire's face to his and they lips met once more, this time in a far more definite, soothing kiss than anything Grantaire could have ever imagined. He tilted his head for their noses not to bump and opened his mouth to let Enjolras in, desperate for his breath, his touch, his caresses all over him, desperate for _him_ all over his skin.

Grantaire thought as he kissed him; _this moment is infinite, and I cannot run away_.

-

The next day was supposed to be spent painting, but Enjolras would not stop grinning madly at Grantaire, which made it very difficult to concentrate. Multiple times he moved and changed positions.

“Be serious,” Grantaire eventually told him, putting his paintbrush and palette down; “Stop moving.”

Enjolras obeyed orders abruptly and stood still, the stern look on his face reminding Grantaire of noble Roman marble. He stepped closer to the blonde man who was still looking at the easel behind which Grantaire had been hiding moments ago, though the closer Grantaire got, the more visible became the slight tremours of his shoulders. He did not move until Grantaire leaned over, took his face in his hand and kissed him; then only did he close his eyes and arch his neck to be kissed better.

Later, in Grantaire's bed in which both laid naked, Enjolras produced a little box from seemingly out of nowhere and opened it, smelling it lightly. He turned towards Grantaire who was pressing his head against his hand and looking down at him with a curious look.

“A lady sold it to me at the feast,” he explained, “She said it would make me fly. Have you ever tried it?”

“On one or two occasions, perhaps,” Grantaire said, grinning in a certain manner that made it clear that there had been more than one or two occasions.

Enjolras' smile broadened; “Would you like to?”

“Now?”

“She told me it lengthened time.”

When Grantaire didn't say anything, Enjolras took some of the paste on his finger and spread it on his pubic hair with a smile worthy of a cat that got the cream. When he was done, Grantaire copied him.

They made love for the rest of the afternoon, and Grantaire only rose from the bed when both had become thoroughly dehydrated. On his way back from the kitchen, the ghost he had seen the night prior made a brief reappearance. Grantaire was not afraid. He went back to the bed chamber, drank some water and then leaned back in bed.

“You must drink,” he told Enjolras, who only hummed in response. He then took some water in his mouth, bent over his lover and very softly, pressed his wet lips to his. When Enjolras opened his mouth, he opened his own and let the water fall in. Enjolras swallowed, then continued to kiss him. The portrait that was now almost finished and drying off was facing them, Enjolras' stern face staring at their intimate scene.

-

The next morning, Enjolras helped Grantaire finalise the painting. He was very careful and followed Grantaire's instructions, and when at last it was done, he put down the paintbrush, looked at the artist with great tenderness in his eyes and said; “This time, I like it.”Grantaire tried to smile and harbour similar feelings, but found he was unable to. Enjolras noticed; “Don't you?”

Grantaire stared at it, chewing onto his lip, then said; “No.”

“Why?”

“Because I cannot help thinking about how by giving this portrait away, I am giving a piece of you away as well. You will be gone and nothing of what has happened in the past few days will remain, it will all be lost and destroyed to the flight of time. But perhaps worst of all, the only thing that will remain will be this portrait, donated to your wife's family. And that's the worst of all agonies.”

“So you are already seeing me as nothing else than a memory bound to be forgotten, is that what you're saying?”

“No.”

“Yes, it is. I wish you wouldn't be so defeatist before anything is even over, I wish you would not see me as nothing more than a memory when I am still standing right before you. _Tempus fugit_ , that is a certainty, but you forget that the present is continuous and covers simultaneously past and future, our memories will continue to be made even once you depart. Do not be so miserable, I beg you.”

“How can I not be so miserable when you are so willing to move on?”

Enjolras froze and stared at Grantaire with a sudden furious look, as terrible, if not more than the day he had discovered the portrait Grantaire had been painting in secret; “No Grantaire, you don't get to be this cruel to me. You know our separation will be just as difficult for me as it will be for you. You should know I think about the flight of time as much as I do, you should know I fear the moment I will last lay eyes on you, and for _Christ's_ sake, do not accuse me of being complicit to the whole ordeal, because you know I'm not! How can you think so little of me as to say such terrible things? How can you truly be so mean, so cruel? Do you truly believe that I have wanted to marry and flee to Milan this whole time, is that what you're thinking? That I knew all along that this, this bond, this relation could only ever be ephemeral and that I was attempting to find pleasure until my wedding? Have you truly so little thought of me?”

Grantaire grimaced in anger and forced himself not to cry despite the tears falling down his lover's cheeks with great affliction.

“If you're so keen on putting words in my mouth, then perhaps you are right,” he eventually spat out.

There was a long, cold silence. Enjolras was seething and Grantaire was shaking with how much anger and despair he was feeling, anger that they would be fighting now of all times and despair for he was incapable of saying the right things, destroying instead everything they had precariously built in the past few days. He wanted to walk to Enjolras, to apologise and explain that he had no idea what was he doing and that all his harsh words were only the fruit of anger, but he could not, perhaps because of some stupid male pride that meant that he could not stand down now.

Enjolras spoke again: “You'd prefer if I resisted my marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Are you asking me to do it,” his voice was trembling. He wiped away tears that were pouring down his cheeks in long, shiny strings with his bare hands, and when Grantaire did not answer he said in a much more imperative tone, “Answer me!”

“No.”

Enjolras left the room.

-

An hour later, Enjolras could not be found anywhere. Gavroche could only inform Grantaire that the mistress of the castle would be back on the next day. He had sprinted outside without even taking his coat and rushed down the trail that led to the cliffs, worry and fear building up simultaneously like a fatal concoction inside his brain. He could not bear to look down the cliffs, see if he would find the body of the man he had been the closest to in all his life broken down below, and yet he needed to. There was nothing, however. He ran down onto the beach, looked in the caves, found nothing, then rushed towards another part, where they had also gone during those two weeks.

Enjolras was standing by some big rocks, wearing the red outfit from the portrait. His back was facing Grantaire and his hair was whipping around his head almost violently, like that of an avenging angel in an Italian Renaissance painting. Grantaire suddenly felt all of the fear leave his body at once, to make place instead to relief, while uncontrollable tears started pouring down his cheeks immediately at his sight. He ran towards him as fast as his legs would allow him, then crashed into him and held him as tight and as close as he could, fearful that he might leave him again to a much more final destination.

“Forgive me,” he exhaled all while on the verge of hyperventilation. Enjolras did not turn around and simply let the man cry on him, on his elegant velvet coat. “Your mother comes back tomorrow.”

At that Enjolras turned around, and returned the embrace, looking slightly shocked and surprised. Grantaire kissed him avidly and Enjolras let him, opening his mouth immediately. When Grantaire opened his eyes, he saw that Enjolras was crying as well.

-

Later in the day Grantaire drew a very small portrait of Enjolras, disheveled, naked, lying in bed with the crumpled sheets around him. The desire to immortalise this scene so it could be cherished forever was all Grantaire could focus his mind on and Enjolras let himself be drawn, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Now, you will be able to reproduce this scene infinitely,” he said, “You will have this picture of me and soon, when you will think of me, it is not the person lying beside you that you will see, but rather this drawing. And I will have no image of you.”

Grantaire refused to fall in to this precocious nostalgia. He offered a grin and asked; “Would you like a drawing of me?”

“Very much.”

“What image would you like to have of me?”

Enjolras grin mischievously and bent down to his lower regions, hidden behind a small, oval shaped mirror positioned in such way that it reflected Grantaire's face. Grantaire laughed and demanded Enjolras book.

“Which page?” he asked.

“Page twenty-eight.”

Grantaire immediately got to work and started drawing his own naked body on the page, Enjolras watching him the whole time tirelessly.

-

The last night was spent attempting to stay awake to cherish every remaining seconds they would spend together for perhaps the rest of eternity. It was terrible. Whenever Enjolras' eyes would close, Grantaire would kiss his eyelids, telling him to stay awake. Enjolras would then reopen his eyes and take in as many details as he could from Grantaire's face, before exhaustion would take over again. Small moments when they were still trying to figure each other out were reminisced and some were even mourned, though sadness was always quick to pass. Grantaire felt truly happy at that moment and never wanted for the night to end, hoping by some artifice or miracle that if he stayed awake, the sun would not rise. Confessions were spoken, and they made love one last time.

-

Leaving was terrible. Of course Madame Enjolras found the portrait perfectly suitable, and Grantaire was remunerated for his work as expected. Accepting the money still felt like the greatest of betrayals to the relationship he had just shared with her son for the past week. He did not have the time to say his goodbyes as Madame Enjolras had other plans for her son. He felt great despair as he packed his belongings and helped seal the painting. He saw Gavroche one last time then went to the room where Madame Enjolras and her son were talking, Enjolras wearing elegant white wedding clothing, like the ghost Grantaire had seen twice during his stay. He found himself hugging Madame Enjolras, then rushing to hold his lover one last time in his arm, rubbing his face in his neck as though attempting to impregnate, intoxicate himself with his smell, whispered a “Farewell,” and then ran off.

As he was about to reach the exit, a voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Turn around,” it said, and Grantaire's entire body froze. He understood of course, he knew which choice he needed to make, and, slowly, he turned around, catching one final look of Enjolras in that doomed white costume. He closed the door behind him.

-

He saw Enjolras twice again.

The first time was in an art salon where numerous paintings were exhibited, notably a few of Grantaire's, positioned well enough to be seen by all in the room. He was there with a few of his friends, notably a fellow artist named Jean Prouvaire. He saw Enjolras on a wall, across the room, and he had to interrupt Courfeyrac in his speech to go and see it up close.

He looked slightly older than he had in Grantaire's memories, his hair slicked and tied back to make him look sterner than he truly was. He wore a blue velvet coat that matched his eyes and had by his side a child who might have been about five or six, blonde like him, round faced and small, looking almost as though shying away from the viewer. Grantaire laughed through his nose: Enjolras still looked as beautiful.

“What's this?” asked a voice behind him, and Grantaire turned around to see his friends.

“A painting of an old client of mine,” he answered. Prouvaire nodded his head and bent closer to inspect the painting.

“Ooh look, his finger is holding the book at page twenty-eight,” he said with the usual wonder a poet holds in his voice, “I wonder what significance does it have.”

Grantaire squinted and looked down at the book Enjolras was holding. Indeed it was page twenty-eight. His smile widened greatly and he almost wanted to cry at this infinitesimal detail that changed almost the entire meaning of the painting.

“A great secret, no doubt,” replied Grantaire.

-

The second time was at a night out at a concert. They were playing Vivaldi, Grantaire had to jump on the occasion. Enjolras was this time real and not only a portrait on a wall, sitting on the opposite side of the room on a balcony alone. He did not notice Grantaire, eyes transfixed on the performance as though they would help him hear the music better, his whole body immersed in the experienced. The world around him had vanished. Grantaire spent the entire concert staring at him from across the room. He was wearing the red coat and looked no different to the time they had parted on the Île d'Oléron, as though merely a week had gone by since their farewells instead of eight years. During the whole concert Enjolras wept, and wept, and wept.

**Author's Note:**

> there are no cliffs on the île d’Oléron but for Reasons let’s pretend that there are. thank you for reading!
> 
> you can find me on tumblr: @niguedouille :)


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